What does one do when the characters you hate
Are the ones you best construe?
Misgivings and flaws you can relate
To, tho venerable traits you eschew,

The green light gazers and "architect" praisers
Familial leeches or the confessor who preaches
That awareness absolves one of sin,
Compromisers and self-named kaisers
Resound and reverberate within

They pass by in my pages to be mocked and scorned
As evil, cruel, an oaf, or a tool
Too low to respect or too high on their horse
Despicable, maniacal, mediocre, or worse

And I do hate their vileness, I do hate their flaw
I want to shake them and claw at their skull
For nothing more than the gleam of recognition
That by some misfortune of natural law
They and I share a need for contrition.

I'm bound by thin shackles, thick ones too,
My mind is held hostage and how I try to escape,
My body may move, yet the Chains of History keep me bottled, I can't forget the ghosts of my past; the traps I so blindly walked into,
How they love to linger,
As a painful reminder of my regrets and remorse,
They speak to me, like every rose to its thorn,
They bind tighter,
I smile.
For with them,
I am Complete.

"Mama said gonna be all right
But mama don't know what it's like in my mind
Mama said that the sun gonna shine
But mama don't know what it's like to want to die"

I'm not gullible, you know.
I know second chances
are just excuses.
I know I have to stop counting the stars for those
who wouldn't even stay up to see them glow.
I know.

I can't keep breaking myself to fit their template,
to make them feel perfect.
I know I need to start burning bridges
with the match that has always stayed unlit through my temperance.
I know.

I need to stop looking through rose-colored lenses.
I always hoped that when I took them off,
nothing would change.

But maybe it's good that
I finally see what has really been in front of me.

The time would be 3:00, had it not been hidden behind the countdown
10
9
8
The wavering vrrrrrrrrrrrrr of the microwave is not enough to wake
The naive parental mind, causing the ideal image to break
7
6
5
The ping
Of the microwave waits
4
Torn between warmth and fear
3
2
It is this moment when the panic sets in,
lunges
for the door

and

stabs
the miniature metallic square
The pop of door
The stench of soggy noodles

And so she is safe

Until another 3:00

Wanna be free
Do my own thing
On my own time
No worries
No stress
Things running smoothly as they should be
Dont need the unnecessary anything
Do one thing at a time
Still doesnt work out
I'm trying to do something for myself
Have something going for myself
Instead I get pushed back..
Step 1
How is a person supposed to keep fighting like this?
Yea the same old saying..
But what else is new though?
What else you got for me?
Positivity can only bring but so much joy
Just wanna strive and achieve

Only works but so much
Block out any and every feeling that's there
Doing any and everything to make it seem like I'm ok
To put my mind somewhere else
Then it hits you
Now you dont wanna do anything
But sleep
Eat
Think
Cry away the pain
Pain clouding
Just a simple
Quick 
Easy way to think you're out

She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.

Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.

I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.

All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.

She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.

I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.

Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.

She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.

cheap liquor, good drugs.
burns through her cash.

blue eyes turn grey,
deep seas now ash.

stranded on shore;
nowhere to swim.

beautifully drained:
soft, rotting skin.

laying on the sand,
of an hourglass.

watching, waiting,
for day to pass.

her insides crumble.
her unbearable pain.

her lack of reason,
to ever change.

and if she had the chance,
she'd do it all again.